From yesterday's Daily Telegraph:
In 1990, I reported to the Astley
Cooper Renal Ward at Guy’s Hospital,
nervously clutching an envelope of medical notes from my consultant at my local
hospital in Canterbury. I was both excited and apprehensive at the prospect of
a kidney transplant
which would end my two days a week spent on a dialysis machine. Back then
either I nor my doctors had any idea that the new kidney I was about to receive
would survive well into the next century.
Recently I returned to Guy’s, not
as a patient but as an artist. I'd been commisisoned to create a major new work
of art for the central atrium, where many staff, patients and visitors gather.
It was commissioned to honour all those who have given organs for
transplantation, both living donors and those who in death, have given new hope
to others. Designing the work has been poignant for me personally, as it marks
the twenty-fifth anniversary of my own transplant. The three metre square wall
installation, to be unveiled next Saturday [april 4] by Alan Titchmarsh
with a dedication from former archbishop Rowan Williams,
shows a cherry tree in blossom. It is made from several hundred pieces of
stainless steel, cut to shape and with some of them painted. While it
represents new life in general, it has a special significance for me because a
flowering cherry was planted several years ago in memory of my own donor.I am
amazed, considering the way things went medically, that my transplant is still
going strong. I had been diagnosed with kidney failure six years earlier
following an illness contracted when reporting for the BBC on an earthquake in
Algeria, and had been dialysing for four and a half years. The
kidney I received was from a deceased donor, whose name I was never told,
although I have corresponded with her family anonymously through the hospital.
I still vividly recall how the
operation was followed by the longest night of my life. I was in pain, with
tubes and drains and drips attached, all of which needed constant monitoring
and adjusting. My body rejected the new kidney so fiercely that three days
later I was taken back to theatre and surgeon Geoff Koffman had to decide
whether to remove it or repair it: he said the new kidney had split open ‘'like
a sausage'’. Thankfully he was able to repair it and give it one more chance. Then,
for the next four weeks, it refused to work. I continued to be on dialysis and
while I could get up and walk around when not attached to the machine, I
remained a hospital in-patient. Guy’s became my entire world. I could take
short walks in the neighbourhood, but had to return for sleepless nights to my
hospital bed.
Today I see much has changed in
the vicinity. The hospital tower block that used to dominate the area is now
dwarfed by The Shard.
The street plan is different and the hospital grounds have been substantially
redeveloped. Yet as I walk to the hospital from London Bridge, flashes of
memory return. Much has changed too inside the hospital too. It feels a
brighter place than I remember and there are no longer gaggles of smokers
sitting on the landings outside wards. The transplant ward itself is now
relocated and is named after a Victorian pioneer of kidney research Richard Bright.
But the most significant changes that have taken place are not immediately
visible; they involve the medical technology of transplantation.
Thanks to advances in drug
treatment kidney rejection rates have fallen substantially. In my time 30 per
cent of transplanted kidneys were lost in the first year, through recipients’
bodies rejecting the new organs as ‘'foreign tissue’'. That rejection figure is
now 2 to 3 per cent. This means that while matching a kidney to the recipient
remains important, compatibility is no longer as crucial as before. This new
generation of anti-rejection drugs has enabled less well-matched organs to be used
and for more living donors
to offer organs.
Fortunately most people have two
kidneys and only one is required for transplant, so a patient can be offered a
spare kidney by a relative, spouse or a friend. The advances also mean that
“altruistic donors” can offer organs to people they do not know. Surgical
improvments also mean that the kidney can be removed by keyhole surgery
and the living donor may only have to be in hospital for 3 or 4 days.
Today, says Geoff Koffman, around
50 per cent of the transplants he is involved in are of kidneys from living
donors. The operations can be planned and the medical team can be assured the
medical history of the kidney being given is fully known. Because of the
on-going shortage of organs, sometimes kidneys from deceased donors are only
borderline in their viability as they might come from an older donor or one
with previously undiagnosed medical issues.
As a result, Geoff Koffman tells
patients awaiting transplants, on average a kidney from a deceased donor will
last 15 years, but from a living donor 20 years. Transplants like mine that
have survived 25 years are now regularly seen, but back in 1990 the techniques
of transplantation were relatively new and there too few case histories for
valid forecasts to be made.
Twenty-five years ago, I recall
how after three weeks of waiting, the renal team decided to give me a new drug
to kick-start the kidney into action. Called OKT3 it was a sledge-hammer
treatment with the most unpleasant side-effects: I remember being dehydrated
and suffering from explosive diarrhoea.
After this treatment I decided I
needed a break. It was Easter: on Good Friday I underwent dialysis, little
realising then it would be for the last time. The next day was my birthday and
I told my doctors I would be going home for one night in my own bed. That
evening my wife Helen and I opened a miniature bottle of champagne. I had been
given a case of six bottles by a friend, the actor and fourth Dr Who, Tom
Baker. “Just what you need” he said, but champagne was not something I had
fancied trying until then.
The next day was Easter and we
went to a glorious and up-lifting service at Canterbury Cathedral. That night I
returned to Guy’s. The next morning something unexpected and remarkable
happened. The kidney transplant started to work producing urine. To begin with
it was a dribble or two at intervals, which gradually this became a full
torrent of activity. Since then I have had no need to dialyse. I can travel
without restriction and my life is no longer marred by the cycle of exhaustion
and inability to relax that renal failure produces. I can also eat a normal,
healthy diet and my fluid restriction is no longer restricted to the equivalent
of two cups of tea a day.
Was it the drug, the champagne or the joy
of Easter? I don’t know and I don’t need to know. I am simply happy to still be
living with the consequences of my transplant; and to have the chance to
express in art my gratitude to the donor - the friend I never knew.
From Daily Telegraph http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/health/news/9128050/Breakthrough-in-kidney-transplant-could-cut-waiting-list.html